Who let the blogs out?

Right following one of my by now accustomed 6 month breaks, Max is back. And do I ever have some stories to tell. Now the reason for my absence can easily be explained by an extraordinary cashflow crisis, a relationship breakdown, a forced relocation and two further job roles... I'd probably better tell you about what happened to the last job I had before all that though, eh?

Well inevitably I got fired from the ripping off old ladies gig. This was partly because I didn't turn up, but that wasn't enough on its own. It wasn't because I was shit at it, even though I was, really. It was at least partly because the faceless sickline voicemail turned out to be staffed by radical incompetents, which meant that I could have left a message saying that I had been abducted by aliens and was being cruelly dismembered on one of the moons of Jupiter and it wouldn't have made a blind bit of difference.

So even though, from their perspective, I had been AWOL for days before turning up late and out of the blue for a poxy 4 hour shift, they were still prepared to give me the benefit of the doubt.

In short, I had to make them fire me. The prospect of remaining actually paniced me because it would firstly mean another four hours of Old Lady hell, but it also would probably have forced me into leaving of my own accord. Unfortunately sacking is an essential first step on the road to jobseeker's allowance; resigning doesn't cut it unless there's a court case pending. Fortunately they asked me what I had been doing, so I told them about the job interview I had been preparing for

"Hang on a minute", my superviser said, and went off to get the HR manager.

The gravel voiced hatchet faced crone with whom I was eventually faced had obviously engaged in a vast number of these conversations. The patronising smile and firm demeanour told of someone ready for dissent, itching to crush her enemies beneath her sensible shoed heels. Her broad shoulders clearly carried the weight of many ruined lives and shattered dreams. She loved it.

As I was once again escorted from a premesis I could reflect on a job well done (getting sacked), and a princely 150 quid in the bank for a job badly done (erm... the job). Being fired still shears away a bit of your soul though, however it occurs.

Talking of jobs badly done, you're probably wondering what happened on the trip to Ireland. Well, possibly. Anyway, what happened is this:

Max

The blog posts you have written are not suitable and I am sure you can understand why.



Kind Regards,

I never even got my fiver. Philistines.